The night before Kirov left, Bogdanov brought a bottle of vodka to Kirov’s apartment. They had a few drinks and then Bogdanov asked, ‘What’s the penalty for getting caught? Grishin isn’t exactly going to stand behind you, is he? Unofficial, think that’s the word he used to describe his sanction for this trip.’
‘I don’t know the penalty for trespassing on the local Resident’s territory. A complaint to Moscow? A reprimand? Nothing much.’
‘Nothing much.’ Bogdanov agreed too readily. It left a knot in Kirov’s stomach that he could still feel when he rose at six, dressed from his unpacked suitcase and selected the day’s identity from those which Bogdanov had prepared for him.
He took a tram to Lenin Square and hired a car without a driver at the Balkan Sheraton, then drove out of the city, picking up the Botevgrad Chausee and the highway to Varna. It took him on a straight road through hills that lay rich and sunny under the southern autumn, and for an hour he passed only a few carts crossing the highway and the occasional truck, while beyond the farms and their sandy fields the sharp slopes rose covered in juniper and laurel.
At Botevgrad he turned off the highway by the link to the town, a road of posts and cables and low apartment houses with sagging balconies. A man on a donkey-cart gave him directions for the Bulpharma plant, and he skirted the main part of town until he found it. He presented himself at the gate.
The plant buildings were new and stood away from the road, fenced off on the far side of a sandy lot. The gate was guarded by a conscript. To one side stood a ramshackle booth where an untidy young woman took note of the callers and phoned through to the protocol office. A collection of workers outside the gate bought grapes from the back of a truck and paid no attention to the dark-suited official calling himself Hristov who was demanding to see the cadre’s officer.
After five minutes a man appeared from the main building to receive the visitor. He was a small person, swarthy as a Turk, with a habit of looking at his feet while talking. He introduced himself as Senior Plant Engineer Nikolaiev and explained that the plant director and his deputy had not yet arrived and that he, Nikolaiev, had no instructions to expect any visitor, let alone one from the Party’s Central Cadre’s Office. Could he help? Could he make Comrade Hristov comfortable in the protocol office? Offer any refreshment? If he noticed the accent, he made no comment. He opened the gate and bobbed excuses like a man accused of a crime.
At the protocol office Kirov showed his credentials and signed the register. With a display of common sense Nikolaiev invited his visitor to wait while he confirmed the credentials with Sofia. He disappeared and returned five minutes later with the news that the Central Cadre’s Office would not be open to receive enquiries before 9.30, apologised again and asked if Comrade Hristov would mind waiting for a while in one of the conference rooms. The plant director would arrive at nine; he would introduce Comrade Hristov as soon as confirmation came from Sofia. With a mild show of impatience Kirov consented to the delay.
He was left alone in a conference room to study the furnishings and the view from the window over the drive to the main gate. As soon as Nikolaiev had slipped through the door, Kirov tested it to make sure it wasn’t locked. He ignored the fact that his hand was shaking.
A man who exercises authority has the right to exercise authority. That was one of Chestyakov’s maxims, taught to all the students sometime in their second term. Human psychology cannot resist a plausible show of authority: doors open; security systems fail. ‘If you convince them of your authority you can walk bollock-naked into a nunnery,’ said the old man. ‘Just don’t get caught when the Mother Superior arrives.’
The main gate remained closed and the workers passed in and out through a side gate, bringing their purchases from the vegetable truck. Kirov watched them and steadied his nerves with a cigarette, and after a moment returned to the door and stepped out into the corridor. ‘Don’t smoke!’ said a voice.
The speaker was a small busy woman in a white coat and carrying a clip-board. Kirov examined his cigarette but made no attempt to extinguish it.
‘I’m looking for the cadre’s office,’ he told her.
‘End of this corridor and turn right. And please don’t smoke,’ she added more cautiously. This time Kirov obliged her.
Beyond the conference rooms one wall of the corridor was glass and overlooked a production area. It was white-tiled and occupied by a series of stainless steel vessels, a control panel and various pipe runs. A few workers in aseptic white glided silently about the space. The atmosphere was remote, inaccessible. The idea that contamination of Viktor Gusev’s antibiotics had originated here began to lose credibility. But if not that, then what? How did Bulpharma and the GRU investigation figure in the scheme of the Great Jewish Antibiotics Ring?
He found the door of the cadre’s office. The room was heavily furnished with files and occupied by a typist and a female clerk. The latter looked at him without interest and resumed her interrupted conversation with the typist.
‘The director wants information on personnel,’ he told her.
‘Help yourself.’
‘Where do I look? He wants to review staff movements for 1984 and disciplinary actions for the same period.’
‘Over there — second shelf. The files are in date order.’ The woman scrutinised him now but without any sign of suspicion. ‘I love the suit,’ she said, and the secretary giggled. Kirov threw her a smile and a kiss, helped himself to the files and found a space to work. Ten minutes later he was finished. It was five past nine. He returned to the conference room where Nikolaiev was waiting.
‘Where have you been?’ the engineer asked. He was nervous and prickly.
‘To the toilet. Has the plant director arrived yet?’
‘He’s in his office. There’s someone with him. He’ll see you at nine-thirty.’
‘Fine. In the meantime I need to go back to my car.’ Kirov let the other man see his easier side. ‘I left the lights on.’ Nikolaiev nodded and relaxed.
They returned by the maze of corridors to the protocol office.
‘Do I sign out?’ Kirov asked. Without waiting for a reply he picked up the register and scanned it for any names following his own. There was one in neat italic handwriting: W. Craig.
‘There’s no need,’ Nikolaiev said hastily and took the book out of Kirov’s hands.
Behind the receptionist’s desk a door was open to an inner office and through the open door an American voice said, ‘Have you checked this guy Hristov out?’
Back in Sofia Kirov returned the hire car. It was time to reinforce his identity as Hans-Jürgen Becker. From the Sheraton lobby he made a call to Isotimpex and, giving no name, asked for the buyer, Mr Dukov. He was informed that Mr Dukov was at lunch. In the square he picked up a cab and had it take him to the Isotimpex office in Chapaev Street. At the protocol office he presented his credentials and requested to see Mr Dukov, citing a previously arranged appointment. When he was informed that the buyer was at lunch, he brandished a telex and complained that he was used to being better treated. He left them with a brochure on West German air-compressors and promised to return the next day.